


A Political Deduction

by Beckendorf, ReinaZanahoria



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Crack, M/M, Political crack, Primeminister!Sherlock, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-20
Updated: 2014-02-20
Packaged: 2018-01-13 05:22:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1214245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beckendorf/pseuds/Beckendorf, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ReinaZanahoria/pseuds/ReinaZanahoria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Now it wasn't exactly the most absurd decision in the world, but it definitely lacked justification. Sherlock Holmes? Prime Minister?  If it wasn't enough to have him enforcing the law; now he's writing it too!</p><p> Join us, as we watch him legalize every single fucking drug for people with an IQ above 150, and reward intelligent criminals as he single handedly rules parliament.  </p><p>Lord give us strength.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Political Deduction

Sherlock picked up another newspaper and flicked to the obituaries. He always took interest in people’s lives, he found that they were usually much more original than anything found in fictional works. There was an interesting one about a woman who died at the hands of a brutal husband, who apparently had a habit of throwing his fake teeth at her when he had a little too much to drink.

“Anything in the news?” he asked John as he finished the obituary.

“Not much, well… nothing you’d care about,” said John who was sitting at the table, surrounded by the carefully prepared breakfast Mrs Hudson made.

“Not anything I’d care about John? And what precisely do you mean by that?” Sherlock said, raising a delicate eyebrow quizzically in John’s direction.

“Well y’know...just...nothing enough to hold the fabulous attention of the brilliant Sherlock Holmes.” He replied, a little surly drift to his voice, the intonation he usually used when he was internally sulking about something.

Sherlock flopped back on the sofa, intentionally ignoring the tone in John’s voice. “Then I’m bored.”

“Get another newspaper, you have thousands.”

“Read’em all.”

“Then...I dunno, read Dickens or Hardy or something to cure your insatiable boredom so we are blessed with some peace in the goddamn house!” He exclaimed. The past few days had been agonising. Sherlock had had almost no cases apart from the Christmas one with the goose. (just an obscure reference, doesn’t have to be explained) He spent almost everyday experimenting with different methods to keep boredom away, but alas-it did not always do the trick.

“John you know… “ Sherlock started, but he didn’t have time to finish his sentence as the doorbell rang from the fridge.

John rolled his eyes. “How many times….Sherlock, get it.” He said, shaking his head.

“Why should I get it? You know perfectly well what the system is, just because I’ve been gone for two years…” he stopped when he saw the look on John’s face. He swallowed and exaggerated his usual eye roll before making his way down to the front door. It seemed even Mrs Hudson wasn’t up to her usual standard today.

Just from the profile he already knew who their unexpected pain in the ass-visitor, was.

“Mycroft.” He “greeted” as he opened the heavy wooden door to reveal the older Holmes brother.

“Sherlock. I trust all is well with you and Dr Watson.” He replied, displaying his usual toothy grin-one Sherlock was all too used to, and something he wasn’t very fond of being subject to either.

“You know damn well how things are going considering you stalk us in your free time. What is it now, Security level 9.8?”

“Actually it’s 9.7, you think too highly of us.” He replied, inducing his rather cool demeanor despite that he was rather annoyed at the fact his brother hadn’t invited him in. Not that he would willingly want to spend time in that hell hole of a flat his brother called home. God only knows how Dr Watson got on.

Sherlock glared at Mycroft, angry to have been corrected at such a trivial mistake. “Enough chit-chat, why are you here?”

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “You’re needed, obviously.”

“Obviously, but it must have something to do with the government,”

“You couldn’t be more right,” Mycroft smiled, as if there was a little joke that only he understood.

“That much is absurdly simple. It isn’t something of imminent danger as such but you are nervous. You aren’t a nervous man, Mycroft…” Sherlock glanced down at his brother’s shoes and sleeves, trying to gain a little more insight. The problem with having a genius brother meant that Mycroft both knew and had taught him most of his tricks of deduction, so found it much easier to conceal and fake the things that Sherlock could usually guess at a glance.

“Well, put simply, the Prime Minister, for whatever god forsaken reason, wishes to see you.” He said, arranging his features to express some degree of distress.

“That wouldn’t make you nervous. Something else then. And what are you, the Prime Minister’s personal pigeon?” Sherlock replied, clearly unamused.

“No Sherlock that kind of thing would make me nervous because he has asked for a private audience, meaning no one else will be present, not even his most trusted ministers.”

“Yes I’m perfectly aware of what a ‘private audience’ is, what I want to know is why he wants to see me in the first place. Everyone is familiar with the drill, the quickest way to get into contact with me is through the website-Prime Ministers included.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes.”Sherlock need I remind you of the Irene Adler case, this is important-this is our country-your country. I advise you not to take it lightly. And for god’s sake will you please wear something else other than that ghastly sheet?” he exclaimed, turning his nose at the very root of his nervousness.

“Shan’t.” Sherlock replied, unusually gleeful at the prospect of wandering the streets of London semi nude. “JOHN! WE HAVE UNUSUALLY ANNOYING COMPANY.” He called up the stairs, as a way of announcing his arrival. He heard the usual shuffle of feet as John made his way to the kitchen in order to prepare the tea. John was well aware of who it was; the tea was just part of his inbred British courtesy.

Mycroft groaned inwardly as he walked up the stairs, wondering why his brother had chosen a home where exercise was necessary when you entered. Then again, he was on a diet. Maybe this could count as his workout for today.

John finished preparing the tea and opened the door for them.”Mycroft, always a pleasure.” He said, polite as ever.

“I’m sure.” Mycroft replied, with a typically mocking sneer which was more directed at Sherlock than at John himself.

Sherlock sauntered into the room and took his place on his chair, tucking his legs underneath him. John often thought he looked a little like an owl when he did so-sans the large eyes.

“So why’s Mycroft here?” He said, this time definitely directing the question at Sherlock. Said man just gave a shrug before going to back to rubbing resin onto his bow. Long thin fingers gently sliding up and down the taught horse hair...it was enough to give even the most reserved of people a slight shudder. Today’s example was John.

“I am here because Sherlock, for some god forsaken reason, has been called to Downing street.” Mycroft said, every ounce of annoyance he felt for the situation oozing out both his words and deliverance.

“Downing stree-the Prime minister wants to see Sherlock?” John said, stiffening in his deadly serious way.

“No, the King of France wants to see me. Of course it’s the Prime Minister!” Sherlock sighed, “What’s his name by the way?”

“The Prime Minister or the King of France?” asked Mycroft, grinning.

“Both.”

John facepalmed. “Sherlock… there isn’t a King of France.”

“Yes well you can’t expect me to remember such trivial information.” Sherlock said with a nonchalant wave of his beautiful hands. Well, he had never seen the point of France.

“It’s not trivial! It’s relevant!” John yelled, like an insolent and whiney child. Curse of spending time with Sherlock.

“Will you two please stop acting like children, it’s giving me a headache.” Mycroft said from his place on the couch. It seemed he had both run out of tea to drink and cake to eat.

“Fine, please brother dear, proceed to bore us with your no doubt interesting news.”

“Yes so as I was saying, our Prime Minister, David Cameron in case the name had slipped out of your memory, wishes to see you in precisely-” Mycroft checked the eloquent watch saddled upon his wrist, “3 hours.”

“Right well then, we’ll need to prepare for that-”A thought occurred to John. “Sherlock… You aren’t going to go in your sheet, are you?”

“Why not? I went to Buckingham Palace with it. No one told me off.”

Mycroft sighed. “I doubt we have the same recollection of the event. I clearly remember asking you several times to get dressed and as I recall, you did.”

“Really? That’s not how I remember it,” lied Sherlock, tightening his grip on his sheet. He did not want Mycroft to try and remove it again. If the Prime Minister wanted to see him for something other than a case, then he wouldn’t bother with being presentable. He didn’t usually bother with that sort of stuff anyway.

John could feel the tension rising and left the room to get more tea. Tea, he thought, was the most useful discovery anyone had ever made for escaping awkward social interactions.

Glaring at Sherlock’s attire, Mycroft tried to discourage him one last time. “Listen, Sherlock, this really is of importance, please wear something-anything!”

Sherlock shook his head and sat down, crossing his arms. “I understand full well the importance of the situation, I simply play by my own rules. Besides, I think you’ve outstayed your welcome. You can leave if you wish.”

“John hasn’t said anything, I don’t believe he minds.”

“Yes okay, maybe only I want you to leave.”

“Mycroft-I think you should leave before this starts to get out of hand. Sherlock will be there, right on time, and he will wear something decent, alright?” John said, always the brilliant voice of reason-guidance from the clouds. Literally. “Uh, when exactly is he supposed to be there?”

“He said three hours.” Sherlock got up and nudged his brother towards the door. “Go.”

Mycroft knew when the battle was lost. He left the room mouthing “good luck!” to John.

Sherlock slumped back on the sofa and pulled his laptop out.

“What are you doing, Sherlock?”

“Writing up an analysis of footwear.”

John rolled his eyes. “Right, so are you going to get dressed or are we just going to go whenever is convenient for you?”

Sherlock turned with a mildly confused scowl on his face. “We? He wants to see me alone John. And besides, I think I am dressed enough. I showered last night, the cleanliness should last.”

John exhaled and looked to the ceiling, silently begging the lord for strength. “Right, of course. Well, I’m going to go to the shops. We’re out of beans. I wish you all the best.” He said, in an excellent impersonation of Sherlock’s catching sarcasm. He stalked out of the flat, muttering and cursing under his breath. Bloody Sherlock Holmes. Ha, meeting with the Prime Minister. They’ll have national security knocking on their doors next. God help them all.

\--

“I’m afraid you can’t come in dressed like that, sir,” said a security guard as calmly as possible.

“Why ever not? I’m sure that romans had something similar- togas and the like, or… whatever it was they wore,” Sherlock sniffed. He stood impatiently in front of the building, waiting to be let in. John was slowly dying of shame.

The man sighed and adjusted his tie, “Well look here, we can’t let anyone in without ID, I’m sorry. And we certainly can’t let anyone in wearing a sheet.”

John screwed his eyes up in embarrassment. “Listen, this is Sherlock Holmes. He’s a detective and the Prime Minister asked to see him. I’m sorry but no matter how much I tried he refused to get dressed.”

“Sherlock Holmes?” cried the guard, “You should’ve just said!”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I could have handled this myself, John.”

“No, you couldn’t.” Sherlock fought against his will to argue with that, partly because he knew John was right.

“Mr Cameron is expecting you, I’ll tell his secretary you’ve arrived.” Within seconds the guard was speaking to his-they assumed-superior officer, and a phone call later a pretty young woman came out from the innards of Downing Street, pinched expression most office goers and political afilliants very prominently spread across her face.

“My name is Felicity Beacon, I’m here to receive Mr Sherlock Holmes.” She said, without looking up from her little handheld device. Her voice matched her expression.

“That would be him.” John said, as Sherlock scowled at her bent figure, no doubt deducing her in his head. Single - recently broken up, cat lover, allergic to nuts, potentially bisexual, only buys clothes from one brand, harbouring a crush for the Prime Minister, bad relationship with parents…

“Sherlock, you can go in now.” John was so close to slapping the man at this rate. God only knows how the Prime Minister was going to take it.

“You’re coming with me.”

“No, he’s not. The Prime Minister only wanted you, Mr Holmes,” said Felicity coldly. She folded her arms resignedly.

John nodded. “Yes, I’ll just wait outside, shall I?”

“No, I won’t see the Prime Minister without my blogger. Unless he would rather not speak to me.”The woman turned to him with a nod, before heading back to No 10.

“Good luck, I’ll see you later, will you be back for tea?” John said.

“You aren’t getting out of this, John. You’re staying with me.” Sherlock winked at him, “After all, if you don’t stay, you’ll have to rely on my perspective of the events when you write about this in your blog.”

“Mr Holmes if you would rather I call national security to permanently prise you away from Dr Watson I suggest you come with me now.” Felicity was not a woman to be ignored, and so Sherlock was reluctantly forced to follow her whilst John sadly waved at his behind (not that it wasn’t a glorious behind to wave at, per se…). He crossed his fingers in a silent prayer, hoping all would go well.

 

 


End file.
